Chapter Text
They stayed together on the couch for some time. Hermione brushed her nose back and forth over Draco’s forehead, their heartbeats slowing under burning skin until they fully melted into velvet cushions. Draco wrapped his arms around her back and rolled until they lay across the sofa side-by-side. Snagging his wand from the coffee table, he cast cleansing charms over them both and kissed her forehead before reaching for his wrinkled trousers.
Hermione stayed put, naked and content to watch as Draco wordlessly charmed the wrinkles from the wool and tugged his shirt over mussed hair. Soon he was fully dressed and looking down at still very undressed Hermione, languidly stretching like a cat.
“Shall I make us some of your tea?” Draco asked with mock formality.
“Mmm, yes,” Hermione answered. “Kitchen, big cupboard, basket near the bottom”, she managed while pushing up to a sitting position.
“Kitchen, big cupboard, basket.” He said, walking out of the sitting room.
Left to herself, Hermione started her clothing scavenger hunt. She found her sweater across the room and, after some searching, her leggings stuck between the couch cushions. She had to yank twice to free them and was thankful no one was around to witness her Victorian childlike strength. Did everyone feel this wobbly after a romp? Surely she’d acclimate over time. This was not sustainable.
Fully dressed once more, her attention turned to mane maintenance. When Draco reappeared with steaming teacups, She’d managed a loose French braid and had summoned a pair of fuzzy socks when she heard Draco’s footsteps in the doorway
“Which tea did you choose?” she asked as she pulled on the last sock.
A teacup floated into view, hovering under her nose, mismatched saucer at her elbow.
“Mandrake blend for you. And Gillyweed blend for me.” Draco answered, lowering into the armchair and casually crossing a posh ankle over a posh knee.
Lifting the steaming cup to her face, she breathed in the earthy scents of Mandrake root and the hint of honey she’d come to like in her herbal teas. Brewed to perfection. Thank the gods for potioneers.
Hermione’s gratitude was interrupted by the saucer, now bumping against her elbow with increased ferocity. Her exasperation sounded more like a frightened mouse than righteous annoyance as she flicked the tiny plate away. The sound of Draco’s chuckle reeled her in just as she noticed the wand in his fingertips, directly pointed at the saucer. Hermione scoffed. Draco’s laugh only deepened. Hiding her smile, she ducked under the coffee table in search of her own wand. Just in case.
“Unexpected choices,” she said, voice muffled into the thick rug. She stretched out her arm and summoned the vinewood from where it lay half hidden under the end table and sat back up dramatically, stuffing her wand into her braid to warn him off any further shenanigans.
“Your reasoning?” she asked.
Draco smirked and uncrossed and recrossed his legs. “Mandrake for you on the off chance that whirling brain of yours decides to overanalyse what we just did, or possibly even search for reasons we shouldn’t do it again.
She nearly spat her tea into her cup.
“And Gillyweed for me”, he continued, “As I remain breathless from the aforementioned activities,” finishing on a delicate sip like the pureblood elitist he was.
Hermione squirmed on the couch. “Well, that's completely unnecessary as I will not be overanalysing a thing. I’m quite at peace if you must know.”
He said nothing, just raised an eyebrow and sipped quietly.
Two sips later, she felt the anxiety-reducing effects of the Mandrake and knew he’d been right. Letting her shoulders fall, she whispered, “Thank you” into her still steaming cup.
His laugh filled the room and all the darkest corners of her heart.
When their cups were empty, they decided on a walk through the Edinburgh Castle gardens. Their time together was so rarely purposeless that Hermione luxuriated in the ordinary, praying witness to how Draco shrugged on his coat and his easy dexterity when he bent to lace her boot at the door.
Covered in castle shadow, they made their way into the garden, talking freely with hands stuffed into coat pockets.
“Did you know these walls were actually scaled by a group of Scottish men in 1314 to reclaim the castle from the British?
“Oh, Granger, if I’d known your history of wand movements course was boring you, I would have owled over the most mouldy books from the Manor before it got so dire that you resorted to Muggle heist history.”
Hermione smacked his shoulder before correcting him. “I think you’re looking for the phrase Muggle siege. But either way, you’d be wrong. My classes are more than engaging, I just happen to have an appetite for knowledge that outpaces the frivolous mind of aristocrats such as yourself.”
Draco rolled his eyes.
“And furthermore!” Hermione went on, “Were I to be studying and planning a heist of my own, I would not hunt for inspiration in the playbook of brutish men.”
“Oh yes, do tell, where should one hunt for such inspiration, Granger?” his air quotes emphasising the humour in his voice.
“Oh, now there’s a question,” Hermione said through a laugh. “Thankfully, I’m a one-hit wonder and need not concern myself with such planning. Harry can raid all on his own now that he’s got that shiny Auror badge.”
She caught the questioning tilt of Draco’s head as they passed under a street lamp, and realisation dawned on Hermione just as they fell back into shadow. The tales of her year on the run were old wizarding lore by now. War stories turned into legend in the months that followed the Battle of Hogwarts. She’d assumed Draco would catch her “heist” joke from wizarding gossip at a minimum, but perhaps The Prophet isn’t delivered to teenagers on house arrest.
“Just before the battle of Hogwarts, Harry, Ron and I broke into Gringotts to find a Horcrux in your aunt’s vault,” Hermione said, enjoying the irony of sharing this moment with the Black heir himself. “Come to think of it… We essentially robbed you .”
He chuckled but kept his eyes on his shoes, hands in his pockets. His listening pose as she’d come to think of it.
“ Anyway, we found the Horcrux, but the goblins found us just as quickly. We were backed into a corner, and my polyjuice was completely washed off by some enchanted waterfall we hadn’t planned for, so there I was, duelling in that hideous dress, hair sopping wet, a total drowned rat situation actually…”
Draco’s voice cut through her patterned retelling. “Pardon me? Polyjuiced as who?” he asked seriously.
“Oh.” She looked down at her boots as well. “Your aunt actually… I had her wand and a piece of her hair from… well, you already know from what.”
Hermione was suddenly conscious of the fact that her overly cavalier tone, realising this wasn’t the tale she’d grown used to spinning. This was Draco Malfoy. The boy who’d been in the room the night that made the polyjuiced plan possible. This story was underscored by the darkest period of their lives.
She chanced a glance at Draco and found him watching her intently. He nodded knowingly.
Taking a breath, she steadied her tone. “Right— Well, when I found her hair, we were so desperate to end the war that I just went for it. I didn’t give it much thought at the time because it seemed like our last chance. First-time vigilantes that we were and all that,” she added sheepishly, hoping humour could detangle the emotions hanging between them.
A half-hearted shoulder knock and the sound of his laugh reassured her.
“Oh yes, of course.” Draco drawled, “The virgin thief must take every opportunity presented. Tis expected on one’s maiden voyage into larceny. ”
Hermione latched onto his offering and mimicked his accent. Thanks be to humour.
“Exactly, Darling, you get it. Which is why I simply had to leap on the back of the Ironbelly and ride out of Gringotts to freedom.” She said, making a dramatic swooping motion. A dragon in flight.
Draco had stopped walking, and she turned with the joke still playing on her face. His eyes were wide, and his mouth slightly parted, all banter dissipated.
“Granger. You and those two dolts escaped Gringotts on a dragon ?” His voice was bordering disbelief, “Truly?”
Hoping to keep them on steady ground, Hermione put both hands on her hips and looked back at him resolutely.
“Yes, we did and they aren’t dolts, you prat of a man. And incidentally, the dragon was blind, so it wasn’t much to scramble onto its back if I’m honest.”
“Oh, it wasn’t much, was it?” Draco cut in, slowly walking towards her, eyes intent. “Hermione Granger, a witch who loves flying if I’ve ever seen one, just hopped on a dragon to nip out of town. With Famous Forehead and Weaslbee as backup?” He was much closer now.
“Well, yes, the flying bit was rather disturbed…” her voice stuttering out as he stopped in front of her, head lowered towards her.
Draco’s voice came out low. “You robbed a wizarding bank. ”
She nodded as he placed both hands on her shoulders. She eased under his touch and dropped her hands from her hips to let them hang at her sides.
“And rode a Ukrainian Ironbelly across England?” he whispered.
Hermione gave a smaller nod, unsure where he was taking this. Draco slid his hands up her shoulders to the sides of her neck and leaned in to kiss her. His lips were firm, and when he pulled back, his gaze was intense. Was this what an impressed Draco Malfoy looked like?
She gripped his forearms and held his gaze, enjoying the idea of shocking him. His forehead bent to hers. “How are you real?” he whispered, “the things you’ve done. So fucking brave…”
He pulled her face up into a chaste kiss, then stepped back seriously. “I will never tire of you,” he announced, “Not ever. Gods Hermione… an actual fucking dragon!”
Smiling widely, she stepped back into him, pushing onto her toes, and catching his bottom lip in hers. He opened the moment she slid her tongue against his lip, and she wrapped her arms around his neck to pull herself closer. Draco slid one hand along her jaw and the other to the small of her back, and she lost herself to his taste. He nearly picked her up off the ground as they clutched at each other, kissing until they were both breathless. Like they hadn't been in this exact position an hour before.
They walked back to Hermione’s flat, talking of everything and nothing. He touched her quietly, clear in the ways that mattered. An arm offered at the crosswalk. A hand guiding her to the inside of the sidewalk. A finger tucking a curl behind her ear at a gusty red light.
She’d never felt like this. The way he listened, appreciating all the right moments of her seemingly impossible stories, drinking her in. She didn’t feel the need to make the truth of her experience less than it was. She didn’t repeat herself or work to hold his attention. He could handle whatever she shared, and afterwards, he reached for her. She wanted to tell him everything .
His active listening was only matched by his own storytelling. Watching him gesticulate and emphasise his memories of growing up at the Manor, she finally understood why so many Slytherins had followed him around during school. She felt alive when he spoke, as if his magic charged the air around him. Honestly, maybe it did.
Later that night, long after seeing Draco through the flu, Hermione pulled her pink blanket to the armchair and watched as the rain slid down the window pane.
Ever since she first stepped foot on the Hogwarts Express, outside forces had set her opposite Draco in a constant standoff. House rivalries. Blood status. The war.
But then, that same system had shoved them together when it suited. Their juxtaposition paraded for the cause of the hour.
But the man she’d known in letters, seen over steaming samosas, hadn’t been the familiar schoolyard bully from her childhood. She’d finally seen the Draco Malfoy he’d kept behind a curtain of cruelty and realised just how wide the divide between Draco and Malfoy truly was.
Of course, she understood why he’d been the way he was in school and the war. What choices were there when your parents were dragging you down with them?
But her Draco. Silly, thoughtful, persistent Draco was nothing like the villain she’d crafted, lying awake, fuming in her Hogwarts four-poster. She wanted to be tied to him, to drink weird teas in too orange armchairs until they were so intertwined that he’d sunk into her bones. Held together without any force outside themselves.
The thought made the fluffy blanket too hot, suddenly itchy where it’d been warm. Shaking free, she went to the window and traced a Jera ruin in the mist clinging to the glass.
Harvest past efforts. Reap what’s been sow n.
Cool air slipped under the old sill, and Hermione was thankful for the relief.
She’d always been on a team. She was a loyal companion, bound by duty and love for her friends, but the bond growing between her and Draco felt so different from the connectedness she’d known. She wanted to tell him what she had for lunch and then crawl inside his ribcage for a nap. A thought that would have made her gag if she’d had it about either Harry or Ron during their years of complete codependence.
Yet, this bond didn’t resemble any romantic feelings she’d previously acknowledged either. Dating Ron made her feel small and immature, like she was trapped in an outdated version of herself, fighting to be seen. They’d fought like children and let the air sour between them afterwards. Their old habits had constricted until the idea of growing old with him made her want to claw at her skin. Scales grown too tight for the person she’d become.
But with Draco, she wasn’t bound to any version of herself.
She was eleven, sliding open train car doors, trading a toad for friendship.
She was fourteen, with a periwinkle dress waltzing around her ankles, hoping not to trip.
Seventeen, shamelessly confessing the scent of her Amortentia, desperate for approval.
Eighteen, slipping on the Manor’s gravel drive, praying to be invisible.
And today, she’d been twenty-two, gasping in her living room, undone by a Dark Marked potioneer. Draco knew her at every age, every iteration, and he’d written letter after letter because he’d understood who she’d become.
That meant something. She just wasn’t sure what.